Like You Do
by unholymountain
Summary: Malia's wound is deeper than she lets on. (set at the end of the first episode)
1. Chapter 1: Stiles

"That doesn't look so good," said Lydia. She was right. The bright red gash along Malia's side looked gruesome. And painful. And hopefully not infected.

The werecoyote remained unworried. "It's okay," she replied quickly - a little too quickly for Stiles' liking. Kira evidently agreed with him, and voiced her concern. But Malia shook her off too. "I can feel it healing," she insisted.

Stiles gave her a sidelong glance. He'd been around werewolves and other creatures for years, and while he had gotten used to (and jealous of) their accelerated healing, he also knew that it didn't always work. They had no idea what the creature that slashed Malia was like. He resolved to confront her about it once they got back to the hotel.

After they had picked up de-aged Derek - god, that had been an awkward ride, him sitting in between the two girls in the backseat, trying not to touch either one of them - they headed back to the cheap hotel they had gotten a few rooms at. Scott and Stiles were sharing a room, as were Lydia, Kira, and Malia. Braeden had taken off, and he and Scott figured they might as well put Derek in their room to make sure he didn't make a run for it. Just as they got out of the Jeep, however, Stiles grabbed Malia and dragged her to his bunk.

He had been watching her in the car and she had gotten paler and paler as the night went on. Despite her assurances, her wound didn't look any better. Her shirt was stained with an angry red and Stiles had caught her wincing on at least three separate occasions. He fumbled with the room key for a few seconds, keeping a hold on her arm.

"Stiles...I'm not in the mood. I just want to go to sleep." When he shook his head, she tugged her arm away. It was a mark of how serious the injury was that Stiles could keep hold of her. "We can mate some other time, I promise."

Stiles reddened as he managed to unlock the door. "What? No. _Malia_. You're hurt, and I have a first aid kit for those of us who don't heal in five seconds in here. And you," he continued as she started to protest, "have been lying about the severity of the cut. It's not healing, is it?"

Malia froze. She jerked her arm away, this time with enough strength to free herself and send Stiles stumbling into the doorframe. "I'm fine," she hissed. She stalked away as Stiles righted himself and wracked his brain for her reason to act like this. They had been fine earlier. She had even said she would never leave him, even if he was weak or injured..._oh_.

"Malia!" Stiles rushed after her. "Malia! Wait!" She turned around, eyes flashing. He skittered to a halt in front of her, placing his hand on her arm. "Remember what I told you earlier? We don't leave our injured. If the cut's not healing on its own, I can bandage it. Stop the bleeding." He reached for her hand and she hesitantly let him take it and lead her back to his room.

"Did you really think that we would abandon you if you told us that your supernatural healing wasn't working?" asked Stiles, sitting the werecoyote down on his bed before turning around to get the first aid supplies. Malia's grip on his hand tightened and Stiles squeezed back before letting go. She remained quiet as he retrieved the kit and a wet towel from the bathroom. He took her silence in stride and sat down next to her. "I'm gonna clean the wound now, okay?" She nodded and lifted her shirt up to expose the injury. As Stiles dabbed at it with the towel, wiping the blood off, she finally spoke, in the smallest voice that Stiles had ever heard her use.

"I'm sorry...that I'm not too good with this human thing. I just...well..." She paused for a moment, and Stiles looked at her encouragingly. "Nobody has ever treated me like you do. And I don't know how to respond to it right." She looked sad, then, and Stiles paused his ministrations and lifted his hand to her face.

"Malia. Hey. Malia. It's okay. It's okay, alright? We understand that you've been a coyote for the past decade or so. Nobody's expecting you to adapt immediately. Just...let us help you, okay?" But Malia was shaking her head.

"I don't mean just from being a coyote. None of them," she gestured vaguely towards where the car was, "treat me like you do either."

Stiles didn't know how to respond to that. He went back to cleaning the wound, clearing away all the blood from the gash. When he finished and looked up to reach for the bandages, Malia was gazing intently, and a little worriedly, at him.

"Did I say something wrong again?" she asked. "Why aren't you saying anything?"

Stiles shook his head. "No, you didn't say anything wrong." He stayed quiet for a moment, examining her injury.

Malia huffed, a little impatiently. "Then why aren't you saying anything?" she repeated.

Stiles finished putting the bandage on and sat up straight, drawing level with Malia. "I guess," he said slowly, "because no one's ever treated me like you do either."

The two stared at each other. After a few moments, Malia spoke up. "I changed my mind," she said, moving closer to him. "We can mate now if you want."

"What? Malia! Scott's going to come in soon! mmph-" Stiles' protests were cut off by a rather insistent set of lips.


	2. Chapter 2: Malia

**A/N:** The same events from Malia's perspective.

The banshee in the backseat asks about her injury in a matter-of-fact tone (and is that a faint scent of _jealousy _coming from her?) and it's all she can do not to growl back at her, hackles raised. But she wrestles her instincts down, for now, and promises she's okay. They cannot know of her weakness. She cannot detect any malice coming off them, only concern, especially from Stiles - she catches him examining her wound and her heart sinks. But he doesn't say anything, just keeps driving.

Malia breathes. She can hold it together. She does not know why the cut is not healing like all the others, but it will not slow her down.

Malia knows what happens to the weak and injured. It was drilled into her brain as a primal instinct, as a survival tool. If she's hurt, she'll be abandoned. If she's fine, she can stay with her new pack.

They pick up a boy - Derek, Stiles says, but his and the others confusion is so palpable Malia can practically _see _it radiating off them - and he smells of fear the entire ride back to the hotel. Malia is glad the alpha is riding with Braeden - he could sense her pain if he were in the backseat. The boy can too; she can tell by his furtive glances, although he's quick to avert his eyes when she catches him staring. But he's too scared to say anything, and the two girls flanking him in the backseat seem oblivious as well.

The pain is getting worse. Just going over a bump in the road made her flinch in pain, and she _knows _Stiles saw it. Over the past two months, Malia has discovered the boy is nothing if not observant; sometimes it irritates her, but mostly, it's oddly comforting.

They get to the hotel and Stiles grabs her arm. His movement is urgent as he leads her to a room - his, Malia notes, not hers - and she knows what he is after. His touch is not unwelcome, and she briefly entertains the thought of going along with it. But she is tired and hurt and there is no way she could hide the cut from Stiles if they had sex. She tells him as much, but he just shakes his head. My my, someone's insistent. She made to move away, but injured as she was, couldn't do it. His determination was admirable, and she tells him that she is not unwilling, far from it. But he denies her again, and the next words out of his mouth shatter her world apart.

"It's not healing, is it?"

He knows. He knows. He knows and Malia is thrown out of the delicate life she's carved for herself since waking up in a two-legged form instead of a four-legged one. He knows and Malia is out, moving away as fast as she can without showing the effects of the cut. He knows and Malia curses herself for ever letting her guard down around the boy who kept her warm, who was eternally patient with her, who was always teaching her new things about the world.

He calls after her and Malia turns. His hand is on her arm and his words are in her ear and he's offering to help, not to kick her out. Malia's world is shattered for the second time in as many minutes and she numbly lets the boy lead her to his bed. His hand is in hers and she clenches, hard. _He's not leaving. He's not leaving. Thank you._

He brushes at her wound with a wet cloth. It stings, but not half as much as the thought of being abandoned did.

"Nobody has ever treated me like you do," she says, and she means it. In her years as a coyote, she was more of a loner than anything else. Other animals provided competition, not cooperation. Malia had a pack, once; it was early on in her years in the woods, and they provided security in a particularly harsh winter. But the winter grew too harsh for the pack to survive. She had watched as a pair of larger coyotes mauled the runt of the pack, and didn't stick around for the aftermath: she was the next smallest.

Even as a human, people had locked her away in some sort of institution when she told them about being a coyote. Stiles' pack were weary of trusting her, and Malia couldn't help but notice the looks they sent her way when she did something wrong. It was in those times that Stiles was her only salvation. He would look at her with a quirk in his lips and encouragement in his eyes and suddenly her difficulties with the human world were less of a burden.

But he has been quiet for too long. Did she mess up again? Sometimes she wishes that she never came back to the human world, and sometimes she wishes that she never left it.

Stiles shakes his head in reassurance, but he keeps his eyes on her cut and doesn't look up. Malia has never been patient. There was no time to stop and think on the hunt and the hours and hours of _nothing _are her least favorite thing about being a human. She presses him and he finally looks up.

"No one's ever treated me like you do either," he says, and she can tell he means it. She is surprised then, because _she _is the outsider of the pack, not him, and because he always seems at ease with the group that she cannot win over, and because he sometimes smells so strongly of Scott that she wants to bare her teeth and scream "_mine_" even though she knows there's nothing between the two, and above all because how _dare _they make Stiles feel like this when he is bright and patient and reliable and comforting and _good_, so good.

She closes the distance between them. If she doesn't have to hide her injury, there is no reason to refrain from any physical activities.


End file.
